


for angels to fly

by Anonymous



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Bobby | Trevor Wilson Has Bad Parents, Bobby | Trevor Wilson Needs a Hug, Bobby | Trevor Wilson-centric, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death, Only a little comfort, Panic Attacks, Please be warned, Self-Harm, kind of happy ending but not really, massive trigger warning, this story is very dark and depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Do it,the voice in his head growled.You won’t regret it more than those silly boys regret letting you be in their band.He succumbed.~Or~Sometimes Bobby’s head gets too loud. The only way he knows how to quiet it is to make himselfhurt.
Relationships: Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Luke Patterson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Reggie Peters
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Anonymous





	for angels to fly

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS (please read):  
> This story contains GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS of self-harm including detailed descriptions of blood and injury. If you are in any way sensitive to this, PLEASE don’t read it.  
> Every time you hurt yourself, you hurt the people who care about you. Please be safe, make good decisions, and remember that you are amazing just as you are.

Bobby wasn’t like Reggie’s parents, who were addicted to the burn of alcohol and the haziness of its aftermath.

He wasn’t like his older brother Samuel, who was addicted to bite of cigarette smoke in his lungs.

He had always prided himself on his self control, told himself he would never end up like any of the people in his or his friend’s lives that lost the reigns of their own well beings. He never wanted to put any of the people he loved through that.

He supposed that may have made him a hypocrite, had he not been so good at hiding.

His addiction started by accident. Sort of.

It was a sunny Sunday, and like any Sunday, he had band practice with the guys.

After a particularly bad night of tossing and turning, he had finally managed to fall asleep, exhausted, at 6:00 am. Needless to say, he wasn’t at all surprised when he woke up and noticed that the time on his watch read 12:30 pm. What did surprise him, though, was that he hadn’t been woken up by any of the guys yet.

The studio was right next to his house, and as his parents were rarely home, the guys would barge in all the time without giving so much as warning knock before stumbling into his bedroom. But today, despite band practice having been scheduled to start an hour prior, he was left alone.

He shrugged it off, assuming that the guys knew he needed his sleep, and rolled out of bed to get himself dressed for the day.

He felt groggy and lethargic as he pulled on his t-shirt and jeans, as if he’d barely been asleep for a few minutes before being woken up again. He knew that his sleep patterns were getting messed up recently, but he chose to ignore it. Just like he chose to ignore his increasing lack of motivation when it came to any task he had to put his mind to, including music, something that he previously enjoyed more than anything else.

So he dragged himself out of his bedroom and through the front door, forgetting to even grab himself breakfast (or lunch) on the way out.

He made his way down the path that lead to the garage, unsurprised to see the door open, allowing the light summer breeze to air out the studio, which could quickly turn into a greenhouse come the warmer seasons.

He wasn’t _trying_ sneak up on them, but when he peeked inside the studio before stepping through the doors, he remained unseen.

He wished he had slept in longer.

The sight wasn’t unusual; the three of his bandmates tangled up on the couch in an unconventional cuddle puddle, Luke strumming mindlessly at his acoustic as they laughed and talked like they weren’t missing a fourth.

And Bobby _knew_ that he had no reason to be hurt. The guys were allowed to hang out without him, especially since they were letting him sleep in... _unless it was intentional_.

 _They didn’t wake you up because they don’t want you here,_ screamed the voice in the back of Bobby’s head, one he had gotten alright at ignoring over the past few months. But he swallowed down a lump in his throat and knew he wouldn’t be able to stave off the impending onslaught of deprecating remarks from the shrill voice that lived in the shadows of his conscience.

The voice was _wrong_ and _stupid_ and completely lacked all reasoning, but Bobby couldn’t control his feet as they took him back up the path towards his house and brought him back into his bedroom.

He wanted to scream.

But screaming was loud and it required energy that he lacked, so instead, he gave his door a half-assed slam and slid down it with his head buried in his hands.

He barely noticed he was crying until he felt moisture on his fingers, but was quick to wipe away the tears, drying his palms on his jeans.

A vice was now squeezing his chest, crushing his rib cage as it grew tighter and tighter-

“Focus on your breathing,” Alex would have told him had he been there, but the thought of his blonde friend just made Bobby’s lungs scream louder, and his vision grew dizzy as his mind began to detach itself from his being.

In a desperate attempt at grounding himself, his nails scrabbled for his left forearm and he began to tear at the flesh — a desperate scratching, almost as if he was trying to access an itch deep inside his bones, and his blunt nails continued to claw and scrape and damage his pale skin...

...and just like that he was back.

He gulped desperately at the air, eager to satiate his lungs, but he could see again and he could breathe again, despite the drops of blood slowly beading up on the surface of his forearm.

His head fell back against the door and he breathed in deeply, letting his arms fall limp at his sides, eyes shut.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he was startled out his state by the sound of his front door opening. His head popped up and his eyes flew open, but he remained frozen in place. It wasn’t until he heard muffled voices begin to make their way up the stairs that he moved from in front of the door.

“There’s no way he’s still asleep,” the voice that was undeniably Luke exclaimed.

Bobby scrambled for his bathroom that was thankfully attached to his bedroom and shut the door, locking it before turning to the sink.

He nearly groaned when he saw himself in the mirror.

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, adorned by two blue-ish bags from sleep deprivation. His skin was unusually pale and his hair looked like a tornado just blew through.

He turned on the cold faucet and began splashing his face, wincing at the icy water.

“It’s one pm. _How_ does he sleep until one pm?”

That was definitely Alex, and they were right outside his room.

“Bob-o, get your ass out of bed,” the drummer announced as Bobby heard his bedroom door open.

He turned around to dry his face on a towel behind him before noticing the blood on his arm once again. He cursed silently, turning the sink back on.

“He must be in the bathroom,” Reggie remarked, and Bobby could almost picture Alex’s eye roll in response to the obvious statement.

“Bobbbyyyyy,” Luke whined obnoxiously, banging at the door.

“Just a-“ Bobby winced as his voice cracked. “Just a minute.”

He rinsed his arm under the tap, scrubbing at the dried blood beneath his nails, but cursed under his breathe when he realized that, despite not bleeding anymore, his arms was still red, raw, and covered in puffy welts.

“Could you guys, maybe, wait downstairs for me,” he asked desperately, hoping to guide them out of his room.

“But why? How are we supposed to trust that won’t just get back into bed?” Reggie questioned.

“Guys, let’s just leave him be, alright?” Alex suggested, taking on his role as the considerate one. Bobby sighed in relief as he heard the stairs creaking again, this time from them heading back down.

Bobby threw open the bathroom door and headed straight for his closet, digging for something that would cover his arms.

After yanking off his t-shirt, he pulled on a long sleeve, praying he wouldn’t get too hot beneath the LA sun.

After checking himself in the mirror one last time, he made his way downstairs, too.

Reggie was laying on the couch with one leg dangling off as he held a book that Bobby had discarded on his coffee table the previous night. Luke was in his kitchen, digging through the pantry and refrigerator for snacks. Alex, like always, stood somewhat impatiently in the corner of the room as he fidgeted with the strap on his fanny pack.

Alex was the first to notice his presence, immediately frowning at the sight of him. The blonde didn’t get a chance to say anything before Reggie swooped in, though.

“Are you good, man? You look...sick,”

“Nah, I’m fine. Just...tired.”

 _Great going, Bobby. You slept in until noon and then told them that you’re_ tired _. Totally not suspicious._

“What time did you go to _sleep_?” Luke asked, joining them with a chocolate bar in his hand.

“I’m not sure. It was pretty late. Can we just go practice?” Bobby coaxed, already towards the front door.

Alex gave him a scrutinizing look and he knew that he’d be getting an earful from the blonde later.

Throughout practice, though, he couldn’t find it in himself to ignore the voice in his head as it told him that the boys didn’t really care.

~~~

From that day onward, Bobby only got worse. Alex never confronted him, and the rhythm guitarist assumed that he had probably forgotten.

Bobby was, simply enough, forgettable.

Long sleeves became a fixture on Bobby’s person.

While he hadn’t had another breakdown again, he’d dig his nails into his arm whenever he felt himself begin to spiral. It definitely wasn’t healthy, but it helped.

Until it didn’t.

They were in the midst of band practice, a distraction that Bobby would normally have accepted with open arms, but he had felt off all day. It had been a week since he’d gotten more than 4 hours of sleep, and he could barely remember what he’d eaten for lunch that day, let alone what the chords for their new song were. He’d usually be able to feel it out, listen to what Luke was playing and go from there, but his brain didn’t seem to be functioning in that sense, either.

After playing the wrong chord, one that was completely out of key, for the third time, Luke winced and held up his hand to get them all to stop playing.

“Bobby, you good? You’ve messed up, like, three times,” Luke pointed out, swinging his guitar around to rest on his back.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just...forgot the chords again,” he chuckled humorlessly, casting his eyes downwards.

Luke looked skeptical but walked over to Bobby anyways and began going over the chords, demonstrating on his own guitar. Reggie and Alex shared a look of concern, clearly both thinking the same thing.

After reviewing the song, they all got back into their positions before Alex counted them off and they began playing again.

But despite knowing the chords, Bobby’s fingers refused to cooperate. While trying to play an F, he slipped up and fretted one of the strings incorrectly, the wrong note a sharp twang that cut through the music. Luke stopped, even more abruptly this time.

“Do you think, maybe, you could sit out for this one? No offense or anything, I know you’re tired...”

Bobby froze for a moment at Luke’s suggestion. He could feel his chest tightening as he white-knuckled his guitar neck.

“Uh, yeah man. It’s all good. I think I’m gonna go take a nap, actually. I could use the sleep.” Bobby tried his best to keep his voice from wavering as he went into panic mode, doing the one thing he knew how to do best: running away.

He didn’t wait for any of them to butt in, as he knew they wouldn’t ask him to stay anyways. On the way out, he just barely heard Alex scold Luke before the ringing in his ears grew overwhelming.

He hardly remembered the walk up to his bedroom. He just opened his eyes and found himself sitting on the familiar hardwood floor, surroundings blurry but recognizable.

He felt his eyes fill with tears as the knot in his chest grew tighter and tighter.

He nearly tore his sleeve off as he reached for his arm, beginning to scratch and scratch, to go deep enough, cause enough pain to bring him back.

But this time, it didn’t work.

He began to panic even worse, black spots dancing at the corners of his vision. He needed to _hurt_.

Without thinking, he scrambled to his bathroom and desperately pulled opened his top drawer, rummaging through it with an urgency and carelessness that left items scattered across his tiled flooring.

But he kept on digging until he found the box of razor blades that he kept there, practically untouched.

He tore it open and pulled one out, stopping for a moment as he spotted his horrendous reflection in the shiny metal.

 _Do it,_ the voice in his head growled. _You won’t regret it more than those silly boys regret letting you be in their band_.

He succumbed.

The pain cut through the fogginess in his head, and like a switch got flipped, he could breathe again.

When his awareness was fully returned, he looked down at his forearm and nearly choked at the sight.

A total of seven messy horizontal cuts adorned his arm, oozing crimson that drip, drip, dripped onto the ground in a puddle, right next to the stained razor blade that had fallen from his fingertips.

He stared for a second, almost mesmerized at the sight of the blood that filled up the slashes marring his pale flesh before trickling down towards his wrist.

It only took a second for him to snap out of it and realize what he had done.

“Oh god,” he cursed, grabbing a towel from his towel rack and pressing it against the open wounds on his arm.

As he waited for the cuts to stop bleeding, his mind began to wander.

What if he had gotten carried away and accidentally went too deep? What if they got infected? They’d scar, surely. He shouldn’t do it again.

But despite this, he knew the ditch that he’d dug himself was far too deep. He wasn’t getting out of this any time soon.

~~~

His long sleeves no longer served to cover up bright red welts, they were there to cover the bandages that now almost constantly adorned his left forearm.

Luke had made a comment once, jokingly telling him he should put on a short sleeve shirt so he wouldn’t get heat stroke, but when Bobby replied rather defensively, Luke was quick to drop the subject, never bringing it up again.

 _I should probably stop,_ Bobby would tell himself every time he ended up wrapping his arm with one of the reusable bandages he kept beneath his sink. Hiding the cuts on his arm wasn’t easy, and neither was hiding bloody bandages in his dirty laundry. Yet he still got away with it every time with nothing more than concerned looks from his band mates.

At first, he only did it when he was having those moments where he felt himself spiraling down and down and down. The pain would pull him back up, and the stinging that lasted for the days afterwards would keep him there.

But if Bobby knew anything about addicts, he knew that giving into cravings only made them worse.

Once every couple of weeks turned into once every couple of days before he could even think about what was going on, and soon enough, he found himself doing it when he wasn’t even spiraling.

The in-the-moment feeling was a rush of adrenaline, a sudden relief, a distraction from the screaming inside his head. But the long term payoff was miserable.

He was irritable and defensive, quiet and utterly _exhausted_.

Band practice was a chore, and talking to Alex, Luke, and Reggie _drained_ him, like someone was sucking the energy out of him through a straw.

The guys clearly noticed, but they were too scared to say a thing.

His sour mood was rubbing off on all of them.

Alex’s pacing increased, Reggie started flinching a lot more than usual, and Luke lacked his usual childish energy that he previously seemed to have an endless supply of.

Days began blurring together.

Bobby would wake up, practice, leave the studio, and nap until the sun went down. He’d only emerge from his room to force something down his throat when the thought of eating didn’t make him feel sick, even though everything tasted bland and felt like cardboard in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure how long this lasted, but his usual schedule was interrupted one day by Alex catching his shoulder as Bobby moved to leave the studio.

“We need to talk,” the blonde insisted, gentle but firm, not leaving room for debate.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Bobby replied harshly, moving to turn back towards the door.

“Alex is right,” Reggie added, standing from his spot on the couch. Bobby looked at the bassist in surprise. Reggie was usually the last to involve himself in situations that could result in an unnecessary argument.

“And don’t just tell us that you’re tired again,” Luke remarked.

Bobby wanted to argue, to tell them that he _was_ tired, that he was utterly _exhausted_ , but Alex spoke first.

“Just tell us what’s wrong. We want to help you, Bobby. Please,” the blonde begged, brows wrinkling into a frown.

Bobby looked at Reggie and Luke who both shared the same expression Alex did.

“I don’t need _help_ , and I certainly don’t your goddamn pity. Let me be,” he spat, way too harshly considering his friends really _did_ want to help.

But the voice disagreed.

“Bobby-“

“Stay. The fuck. Away from me,” Bobby growled, storming out.

None of them tried to follow this time.

He went straight for his bathroom, a place he found himself spending too much of his time lately, and instinctively dug out his blade.

He pulled his sleeve and began unraveling the bandage around his arm, a fiery hot fury pumping through his veins.

_They don’t really care._

_Your own_ parents _don’t even care. How could a group of stupid teenage boys?_

_Give up._

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear out his hair and rip his door off it’s hinges.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed his blade tightly between his fingers, knuckles going white, and he sliced.

He sliced and sliced and sliced, deeper and deeper, the countless cuts and scars already on his arm coated in _red_ , his hands and his bathroom floor and his whole world being coated in _red_.

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to stop, but when he did, he realized how badly he fucked up.

“Shit,” he swore, all at once noticing how bloody his bathroom had become. It looked as though someone had committed a murder. There was no way it was safe for someone to lose so much blood.

He grabbed the towel he always had at the ready and wrapped his arm as tightly as possible. It was barely a minute before the blood began to seep through.

“Shit, shit, _shit_.”

His vision began to dance, growing slightly darker around the edges. He grabbed his countertop and stood up, turning on the cold water and hoping it would help stop the bleeding. It didn’t.

He didn’t mean to go this deep. He fucked up. He fucked up _bad_.

He dug for a bandage beneath his sink and began wrapping his arm so tightly, his fingers began to tingle. He rinsed the blood from his hands but when be turned to dry them off, his vision went black for a second.

It returned a moment later and he felt himself grabbing the counter so hard his fingers were going numb.

_What do I do? What do I do? What do I-_

_The guys. They’re still in the studio._

Bobby didn’t have the headspace to question his decision. All he knew is that if he didn’t get help quick, he might not be alive to see tomorrow.

He wanted to hurt and he wanted to bleed — he wanted to feel the sting of his blade against his pale skin — but he didn’t want to die.

He stumbled out of his bedroom, gripping the banister as he woozily made his way downstairs.

He swayed back and forth on his feet, blood beginning to soak through the bandage on his arm, vision continuing to tunnel. He made it outside, though, and before he knew it, he was at the door to the studio.

The voices coming from inside barely registered in his brain, though he _knew_ they were talking about him.

When he appeared at the door, they all froze and turned towards him, their conversation coming to pause.

“Nice enough of you to show up,” Luke growled, not noticing Bobby’s unsteady gait or the blood that continued to slowly seep through his bandage.

“Luke,” Alex scolded, earning a glare from the lead singer.

“We’re weren’t trying to talk about you behind your back, I swear,” Reggie defended guiltily, shying away from the door.

“Yes, actually, we were. Because _Bobby_ here doesn’t seem to understand that we actually _care_ about him,” Luke accused, slowly inching towards Bobby’s wavering form.

Bobby felt the blackness that was at the corners of his vision spread until he could no longer see, his ears ringing so loudly, he could no longer hear the harsh words of his band mate.

“ _Luke_ ,” Alex warned, firmer this time.

“ _No_ , Alex,” Luke retaliated, turning towards the blonde. “ _Bobby_ needs to see that he can’t yell at us, then just run out of here expecting us to-“

“Bobby!” Reggie interrupted, standing with a shout.

Luke turned around just in time to watch their rhythm guitarist stumble into the doorframe before promptly collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

“Holy shit! Bobby?” Alex shrieked, running over and kneeling above the boy, shaking his shoulders.

When Bobby came to, it was only moments after he lost consciousness, but Alex and Reggie were directly above him, looks of horror on their faces. Luke, meanwhile, was still frozen in the center of the room.

“Oh my god Bobby, what the fuck happened?” Alex asked, voice wavering and hands still firmly on Bobby’s shoulders.

“Messed up,” Bobby slurred, head lolling to the side.

“Messed up? Bobby, what _happened_?” Alex asked, still not seeming to understand why his friend just fell unconscious onto the ground directly in front of his eyes.

“Too...deep,” Bobby managed to breathe out as he shut his eyes again.

“Um, Alex?” Reggie squeaked, capturing the drummer’s attention. “His arm...”

The blood that was leaking through the bandage was beginning to stain the shirt he was wearing, splotches of scarlet standing out harshly against the white of the cotton.

“Holy _crap_ ,” Alex blurted, yanking up his sleeve and spotting the blood soaked bandage. “Bobby what did you _do_?”

He unraveled the crimson-soaked fabric, letting out a choked gasp at the sight of Bobby’s exposed skin.

The scars and small slices that littered his arm were innumerable, standing out against his pale skin. What really stood out, though, were the fresh ones, the deep ones oozing blood and marring his flesh as though it was paper and not a vital part of his body.

Bobby heard Reggie let out a sob and he winced. No one liked making Reggie cry.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Luke, get a towel,” Alex practically screamed. Luke, who still stood in a daze, snapped out of it and sprinted to the bathroom, returning with a thick white bath towel and handing it off to Alex, who was now crying too.

The blonde, trying his best to stay calm and collected, pressed it to Bobby’s arm, desperate to stop the bleeding.

“We need to call 911,” Alex announced, looking between the other two fully-conscious boys in the room.

“Please, no,” Bobby croaked. He didn’t want to die, but he also didn’t want to be surrounded by doctors in white coats who believe that he _does_ and end up forcing him into therapy for it.

“You’re _bleeding out_. We don’t have a choice,” Alex explained. “Luke, Reggie, call 911, _please_.”

Bobby didn’t have the energy to argue. His head throbbed and he wasn’t sure whether the nausea churning in the pit of his stomach was from dread or blood loss.

He was fading in and out of consciousness as Reggie ran inside Bobby’s house to call an ambulance. He saw flashes of Alex’s face above him and was overwhelmed by guilt.

Alex was sobbing heavily, tears streaming down his cheeks as he kept putting pressure on Bobby’s arm. Luke, who still seemed to be in a mild daze, was next to him, his eyes containing tears of his own.

Bobby was hardly aware of his surroundings by the time the ambulance arrived and Reggie sprinted back into the studio.

Colors danced across his vision and the ringing in his brain wasn’t fading.

The last thing he remembered was Reggie squeezing his hand in a death grip as paramedics flooded the studio. After that, it was all black.

~~~

Bobby woke up to a rhythmic beeping and the pungent scent of alcohol burning his nose. His head pounded and his arm throbbed, and for a second, he was totally unsure of his surroundings or how he ended up where he was.

The moment his eyes cracked open, though, it all came flooding back.

The razor blade, the blood bath, the panicked cries of his bandmates.

He wanted to shut his eyes again and pretend it never happened.

Instead, he let out a groan and cracked his eyes open further, the artificial light stinging his retinas.

He was in a hospital bed, body beneath a thin sheet and an IV in the crook of his elbow. His left arm was wrapped heavily in bandages, pristine and white, covering up the evidence of the biggest fuck-up he ever made.

What stood out most, though, were the three seats next to his hospital bed, occupied by his bandmates and best friends.

Reggie and Luke appeared to be asleep, eyes puffy and cheeks red, but Alex was still awake with his own bloodshot eyes as he played with a ring around his finger. It wasn’t long before he noticed that Bobby had woken up.

“Bobby,” he sobbed as he dove from his chair to hold Bobby’s hand. “Oh my god Bobby...I’m so, so fucking sorry,” he cried, rousing Luke and Reggie who’s eyes cracked open.

“Don’t-don’t apologize,” Bobby croaked, voice hoarse and scratchy.

“Bobby!” Reggie exclaimed, popping up to stand besides Alex. “Please don’t ever, _ever_ do that again. I didn’t know if we were gonna lose you because there was so much _blood_ and you looked dead already and-“ he cut himself with a choked sob of his own, collapsing to his knees.

“Reggie, I-“

“No,” Luke cut in, now standing. “Don’t apologize again. It was my fault, wasn’t it? I yelled at you without having any idea what you were going through.”

“Exactly, Luke. You had no idea. It wasn’t your fault, alright? I’m fucked up in the head. I’m just like Samuel. Just like Reggie’s parents.”

The bassist cringed at the mention of the two people who caused him more pain in his life than any teenager should even have to endure. Bobby gave him an apologetic look but continued.

“Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to worry you. I wasn’t sure...I wasn’t sure if you guys actually cared,” Bobby admitted, his voice hitching and practically turning into a whisper at the end.

“Of _course_ we care, Bobby. We love you. So much,” Alex replied, squeezing his hand even harder. Reggie just nodded rapidly in agreement.

There was a moment of silence before Luke spoke up, voice barely a whisper.

“Please, Bobby. Let us help you.”

Bobby teared up. He couldn’t deny it any longer. He wasn’t ok. He wasn’t ok and he needed help _badly_. And this time, he wouldn’t fight it. So he nodded.

And when the guys huddled around him, giving him the best possible hospital-bed-group-hug as they murmured reassurances, he promised that he’d do whatever it took.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. He knew there’d be even more pain and countless tears, but if it was for his boys, he’d get better.

He wasn’t ok, but he would be.

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of wrote this projecting onto Bobby, as does every other Bobby stan (that’s why we stan him. It’s because he’s so easy to project onto), and decided that I might as well share it with the world, because being a teenager isn’t all sunshine and rainbows (I’m totally ok, though, so don’t worry!). We all make mistakes, but we can all recover.


End file.
